Lost Youth
by Losseniaiel
Summary: One small twist of fate, one cruel chance and young Elrond is propelled into a position he never wanted. AU. Chapter 7 up.
1. Disaster

                                                                                                **Lost Youth**

**Disclaimer: **None of these characters and places belongs to me.  They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.  Only the plot is mine.  I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money.

**Rating:** PG – may go up.

**Summary:** One small twist of fate, one cruel chance and young Elrond is propelled into a position he never wanted.  AU.  Gil-galad is killed when Elrond is a small child.  Unwilling, he must take up the High Kingship of the Noldor in Middle-earth.

**A/N:** This begins some time after Maglor lets the Peredhil go and Gil-galad finds them, but before the battle between Morgoth and the Valar.  Elrond and Elros are the equivalent of 7-8.

**A/N2:** This will be based primarily on the Silmarillion and the Unfinished Tales.  Hence, Gil-galad is the son of Fingon.

**A/N3:** This is the Lord of the Rings category because it will hopefully span all three Ages.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gil-galad awoke to two small elflings bouncing up and down on the end of his bed.

"Ada!" they yelled in unison, pouncing upon him once they realised that he was no longer asleep. "Ada, take us with you."

"Nay, little ones."

Elros pouted.

"Why not?"

"I fear it will be terribly boring, and you will run amok."

"We will not." Elrond cast a warning glance at his twin. "We promise to be good."

Ereinion propped himself up on his elbows. It had been some years since he had found the boys wandering alone in the wilderness, and although they had grown and could be serious for their age, they tended to cling to him.

_*I suppose 'tis because they have never known security. I pray that I can give it to them*_

"I cannot take you with me. Do you not have lessons with Círdan today?" he said gently. The younger twin's face lit up immediately at the prospect of a day spent learning sea-lore, but Elrond looked less convinced.

"I would rather come with you."

"Ah, pen tithen nîn, that may be so, but there is a great difference between what we would like to do and what we must do."

"Maglor used to say that a lot."

"He would," Gil-galad growled. "But you will not find your lessons so disagreeable as Maglor found his oath-bound duties, and I shall be back soon."

He heaved himself out of bed, and, followed by the pair, made his way to the bathing chamber. Having washed and dressed, he watched in amusement as the elflings hurled handfuls of soapsuds at one another.

"Come now, gwanûn, or you shall miss breakfast."

~*~

The High King sat upon his horse, soothing the nervous beast with a firm hand on her neck. She seemed to be unusually ill at ease that day, cavorting around the courtyard, throwing her head in the air. As she finally settled, he gazed down at Elrond and Elros, their tunics already tousled and braids unravelling.

"Farewell, children. Do not be too unkind to Círdan," he laughed, at the expression on the Shipwright's face. He lifted his hand, and as one his escort wheeled and filed through the archway, towards the waiting ship which would take them to the mainland where they would inspect the new fortresses.

~*~

They had come upon them all of a sudden in the dead of night: maybe three dozen orcs, their foul arrows hissing through the air. Gil-galad hefted Aeglos aloft, its point glinting in the moonlight.

"To me! For the West! Fly foes of the light!"

He wielded the weapon with expert precision, feeling it sing in his hand as he stabbed at their assailants. The air around him was thick with blood and dust and the dying screams of both orcs and Elves. He turned to see Aelingalen, his lieutenant, backed against a tree. Without a second thought, he hurled himself on the creature, twisting his hand into its rank hair and jerking its head back until he heard its neck snap.

Tossing the carcass aside, he nodded briefly to the shaken Elf before turning back to the battle. He thumped the butt of the great spear into one hefty body, then plunged the point forward into the orc who rushed at him.

Turning to meet the next, he was shaken by the bodies of his faithful escort which now littered the ground.

_*We are not enough*_

In that instant, a terrible hush seemed to fall, as if time itself had come to a halt. Dimly, he saw the most terrible of all the orcs raise its bow with a hideous grin. Then something hit him, full in the chest, and he saw little else except a melee of blades and bright steel.

Gil-galad was vaguely aware of being lifted onto the back of a horse and of the rhythmic thud of its hooves on the hard earth.

"Thank the Valar that we are so near to the ship," the voice came as if from a great distance, and he recognised it as that of a youth on his first trip, although it was now hoarse with rage and despair.

~*~

The ship had slipped across the bay, each day seeming an Age to those on board as the High King lay below deck, drenched in a fearsome sweat. He was wracked with bitter chills, then burned as if terrible flame was consuming him.

Now, Aelingalen ran up the wharf to deposit the body of his liege in the waiting arms of the Shipwright. He was carried with all haste to the Houses of Healing, where his befouled garments were stripped from him and the healers set to with a vengeance.

Finally, one emerged to greet the silver-haired Elf who paced restlessly in the corridor, his face a mask of worry.

"What news, Master Healer?"

"We cannot heal him. This is some new poison of Morgoth's which we have no cure for."

"But he will live?"

"Nay, my lord," the healer shook his head sadly. "'Tis merely a matter of time … perhaps hours."

A single tear slipped down Círdan's ancient face at the fate of his fosterling.

"Should I send someone to fetch the children?" the other inquired.

"Nay. He would not want it. They saw enough of death at Sirion. Spare them this."

And so he went into the chamber, braving the stench of death which hung heavy in the air despite the steaming basins of water in which athelas leaves floated.

Bending his head, Círdan wept freely until a weak hand reached out to grasp his own.

"Mellon-nîn," Gil-galad whispered. "There is much yet to be done. You must send for Galadriel. She will be Regent until Elrond reaches his maturity. He will take up the High Kingship and lead my people. It grieves me that I must leave them in this time of need. But after all, perhaps I was not meant to bear this crown." 

His head fell back on the pillows and he gasped for air.

"Speak not so. This bauble matters not and the Peredhil will grieve…"

"I wish I could have seen them grow. I wish I did not leave them as all have … There is a book which Elrond has always coveted, and a map of the seas which Elros wants for his own…" he trailed off, coughing, his face as pale as the sheets. "Give them these things, for they will not understand this, nor will they desire the few things of value which are left to the House of Finwë in Middle-earth. When the time comes, give them such things of those which are appropriate."

His eyes flickered closed, and his breathing became shallower still.

Círdan watched through the night until the next day the last of that noble strength was sped, and Ereinion Gil-galad passed to the Halls of Mandos.

~*~

With a grief-stricken face Círdan paced down the corridor, holding the mithril circlet between trembling hands. Pushing the door open, he found Elrond and Elros sitting up in their beds, plotting some new mischief. He sank down beside them, not knowing how to find the words.

"What is it?" Elros asked. "Can we go out on the sea today?"

"Nay." He put an arm round both sets of small shoulders. "I bring grievous tidings. I … There was … Ereinion was … There was an attack and he was poisoned by orcs. He died in his sleep," he finished bluntly.

"No."

"You lie," Elrond said, shaking his head vigorously and pulling away from the Shipwright's arm. "Ada is not dead. He cannot be."

"But he is little one. I was there. Now you are High King." Círdan winced at the insensitive words as soon as they left his mouth.

_*This is why they see … saw Ereinion as more of a father*_

But the proclamation of his new title seemed to have brought the reality of the situation home to Elrond. With a whimper of misery, he tugged at Elros' hand and fled into the depths of the palace, leaving the Lord of the Falathrim to his own grief.

~*~

Círdan had abandoned his search for the children hours before. It was useless to seek them if they did not wish to be found, for they seemed to melt into the shadows. Now he sat on the deck of the small boat, still moored at the dock, his feet dangling in the water. From time to time he took deep swigs from the wineskin at his side, gazing out at the calm sea.

Just as he was about to cast off, and attempted to find some solace in the lonely tossing of the waves, he heard small feet flying across the stone. The Peredhil jumped into the boat, causing it to rock frantically, and turned bleary red eyes to him.

"Take us out to sea with you, Master Shipwright," Elrond demanded.

"We want to hear the horns of Ulmo," Elros finished.

And so the three passed the night, floating in the midst of the waters, hoping for counsel which never came. The two boys huddled close to one another, their fingers interlocked, strands of their dark hair intermingling. When he thought they had fallen asleep, Círdan began to sing in a low voice, a lament which he had learnt on the shores of Cuiviénen so many long years before. 

He started at the touch of a warm hand on his shoulder. As he turned, he thought for a moment that he looked upon Ereinion as he had been when he first saw him, the grave heir to the kingship of the Noldor in Middle-earth, and his heart leapt. But of course it was not so. As the moon moved out from behind a cloud, Elrond's half-elven features were clearly illuminated.

"What can I do for you?" Círdan asked, breaking off his song.

"This is real, is it not? Ada is really dead; the healers could not save him."

"He is."

"And I am really High King?"

"You are, for you are his nearest blood-kin that lives yet." Círdan brushed a tear from the Peredhel's cheek.

"I would rather be a healer," Elrond said fiercely. "Then I might stop others dying as he did."

"Perhaps you can be both, little one," the Shipwright reassured him. "For this is yours, whether you will it or not." He drew the crown from under his cloak and handed it to the quaking child.

Solemnly, Elrond placed it on his head. It slipped down to cover one of his eyes, tangling in his braids. He removed it, turning it round and round in his hands.

"I do not think I am ready to wear it yet. Perhaps I never will be."

TBC

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ada – father, daddy.

Gwanûn – twins.

Mellon-nîn – my friend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	2. Mourning

**Lost Youth**

Chapter Two

All disclaimers etc in the first chapter.

Thanks to Nemis for betaing this.

It's good to see that I'm cementing my reputation for evil with this fic *g*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Círdan crept into the room, already clad in his ceremonial robes. He had not been able to find the elflings in their rooms and guessed that they would be in here, as they were. The two tiny bodies were curled up under the sheets, their dark heads close together.

The floor was still strewn with a mass of tunics which no one had had the heart to clear up. An old sword was propped in the corner, and a book lay open upon the desk. The whole chamber was redolent of the deceased High King, which was, of course, why Elrond and Elros had sneaked in here.

"Come now." He reached out for to touch their shoulders. "It is time you were up."

Elros merely grumbled and buried his head in the pillows, but his brother sat bolt upright.

"It is today?"

"Aye. Galadriel and Celeborn will be here soon, and then…" He did not need to finish his sentence. Then there would be the funeral. Afterwards, the last surviving adult of the House of Finwë, except for the two accursed kinslayers, would formally take up the protectorship, ruling in Elrond's stead until he came of age. 

Already the Shipwright fancied that he could see the new responsibilities graven in Elrond's face. He had always been the quieter of the twins, but now fresh sombreness seemed to shine in his eyes.

"Elros." The Peredhel shook his twin. "Wake up."

"D'n't w'nt to."

"Get up, you lazy slug!" Elrond was becoming exasperated, the resorted to tugging at his brother's hair. 

Finally Elros emerged from the sheets, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"'Tis too early."

"Not today, little one."

The child's eyes widened in remembrance and then filled with ready tears. "Oh."

~*~

Galadriel sat straight on her horse, her white mantle flowing round her.

//Do not fear, my love// Celeborn said in her mind, but she was not calmed. Certainly, she had come to Middle-earth to rule, but her youthful imaginings had never included this.

//A peredhel babe as liege-lord of the Noldor in Middle-earth! To what depths we have fallen … And can I hope even to preserve his kingdom until he comes of age?// She was not given to self-doubt, but the idea filled her with a foreboding which she could not pin down. //Yet something tells me that he must survive…//

"Then you must make sure he does so," her husband replied out loud. "Now look – they await us."

Círdan stood slightly in front of the grieving crowd; he was flanked by the peredhil. The two boys were dressed identically in robes of deep blue velvet, not yet embossed with their own arms, but with the myriad stars which Gil-galad had borne. Their hands were bunched into fists by their sides and their faces showed signs of recent tears.

"Hail, Masters Peredhil; hail, Lord Círdan and people of Balar." Galadriel was wise enough not to greet Elrond with his new title; that unpleasant business would come later. "It is a sad day which brings us here."

"Sad indeed." Círdan bowed deeply. "Shall we proceed?"

The simple, unadorned coffin was brought out, and they formed a solemn procession behind it, wending their way to the highest hill on the Isle of Balar, where Ereinion Gil-galad would be buried, facing the West from whence his ancestors had come with such high hopes of victory. As befitted her new position, Galadriel found herself walking behind the young High King who was rubbing at his eyes in a desperate attempt to quell his tears.

Unfortunately, he was so immersed in this melancholy task that he did not notice the small rock which lay in his path, and he tripped. Instinctively, Galadriel reached out her hand to steady him. A flash of power as bright as lightning, as pure as the light of Anar on the sea, coursed up her arm, along with something less definable, the merest glimpse of a lord, tall and wise … She recoiled in shock.

The boy looked up at her quizzically, but she shook her head and gave him a wan smile which he returned with a moment's hesitation.

At long last they stood by the freshly dug grave. All Elrond's childish composure deserted him and he began to sob softly, gripping Elros' hand so tightly that his knuckles whitened. The twins watched in mute horror as the brief words were spoken and their foster-father was lowered into the earth. Only then was the eldest child shaken from his stupor.

"He was greater than all of us," he said with surprising maturity. "But most of all he was our Ada …"

"Long may his star shine," Círdan muttered as Elrond buried his face in his tunic, his shoulders shaking.

~*~

They stood in the main hall of the palace, surrounded by grim-faced Elves and, here and there, a scattering of Men.

"It is my solemn duty to announce," Círdan proclaimed, "that Elrond Eärendilion is now High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth." He handed the crown to the quaking boy, who placed it on his head, trying to keep the circlet from slipping down around his ears. There was no shout of acclamation; no rejoicing at a new hope, for those who were assembled saw little promise in this coronation, and had scant faith in the boy-king whose ears were being slowly bent over by the crown.

Once Galadriel had formally assumed her office, they settled into their places. Elrond shifted uncomfortably in the central seat, reaching out for his brother who sat on his left hand and avoiding the curious eyes which gazed upon him.

"Why do you not eat?" Elros asked. "The stew will make you feel better."

"I am not hungry." His twin twisted his fork between his fingers. "And anyway, I cannot eat with a stupid lump of metal on my head."

Galadriel reached over and plucked it from his head, careful not to touch him, afraid of her own forebodings.

"No one will mind if you do not wear it."

Taking it from her, he placed it carefully in his lap and asked, "Does this thing really matter so much? It was important when Ada … I mean Lord Gil-galad … wore it, but I am only a child. Would it not be better to forget about it?"

"That may be so, yet it may not be, young peredhel." She eyed him speculatively. "And it may yet be that the fate of all these lands is bound up with that crown."

~*~

Galadriel, sleeping only lightly in her new chambers, was woken by wails of terror. She sat up in bed alongside Celeborn, waiting in the silence. The desperate cries rang out again and she heard in them a note which suggested that they belonged to a child. Throwing a shawl over her nightgown, she hurried down the corridor. She found one door slightly ajar, a dim light spilling out into the passageway.

Pushing the door open, she saw Elros kneeling before his brother, begging him to awaken. For an instant, she thought that yet another tragedy had occurred, before she reminded herself that it was to be expected that the half-elven might sleep with their eyes closed.

"He will not wake," the younger twin whimpered.

"No Ada … please do not leave me … Elros, no, no, no!" The sound rose to a crescendo then died away as Galadriel moved to sit on the bed. Without thinking, she pulled the terrified boy to herself, smoothing his dark hair, and the impression she received was stronger this time – power … wisdom … sadness … perilous deeds … yet a broad smile and the sound of happy laughter … blond hair shimmering in the sunlight … 

Although she did not pull away, the vision faded, leaving her only with a sense of unease. Strangely, she was reminded of her eldest brother, who used to be troubled in his sleep.

__

*May this child not meet the fate of Finrod. May he be preserved from the darkness*

"What is it, child?" she asked steadily as the stormy grey eyes flickered open. "What do you see?"

"I do not know." Elrond shook his head dazedly. "I received tidings of dread and Ada would not stay with me to receive them … I was alone … so alone…" He clutched at her desperately.

Galadriel rocked him in her arms, bemused by this novel sensation, and not entirely at ease with it.

__

*Elbereth, children are strange creatures*

Nonetheless, when Celeborn crept into the room, he found two elflings wrapped round her, fast asleep.

"They are so young, so tender, and yet so old." She raised her eyes to his.

"Aye, I know, but a heavy burden falls upon them, Elrond most of all."

TBC

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	3. Epesse

**Lost Youth**

**Chapter Three**

Thanks as ever to Nemis for betaing this.

Sorry for the delay.  Real life got … well, real.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The years that passed then were long and hard, and even the appearance of the Silmaril in the heavens did little to mitigate the growing dread in the hearts of the Elves.  And whereas Fingon's son had slowly but surely claimed their allegiance, the new High King was but an elfling, and fear threaded through their veins.

Those who knew him in those years did not doubt, for such was the light in his eyes, the glimmering silver of his gaze, and the determination writ hard in his face.  The young King grew fast, faster than the Eldar were wont to, and already at but thirty-five years of age, he was tall and slender, learned in lore and wise, far beyond his years.  And the much-loathed crown no longer fell over his ears in such a comical fashion, but rested atop his dark hair – when he could be persuaded to wear it, which was not often.  But many did not know him, saw him only from a distance, a half-grown child of mixed blood, whom they could not distinguish from his brother; an elfling not yet tried in battle.  How could he possibly stand against the Dark Lord when all others of his House who tried had fallen into darkness?  And thus it was that the Lady Protector hatched a plan…

"What does this say?" The elfling's shoulders tensed as he stabbed at the genealogy with one finger.  "What in the name of Mandos does this say?"

"Hmmm… well, 'tis the table of your family, my liege," Gelmir answered evasively.

"And what does it say of me?" 

"Eärendil, son of Tuor and Idril Celebrindal of Gondolin, and Elwing, daughter of Nimloth and Dior, heir of Thingol; their younger son, Elros, and the elder, the High King, Elrond Gil-estel."

"Precisely."  Elrond crumpled the sheet of parchment between his long fingers.  "Are you not content to endear me to a populace which wants me not as their king by my forsaken inheritance alone, that you have to appropriate a title for me which rightfully belong to others?"

"My liege…" Gelmir started, wishing that he were anywhere else.  He was a kind man and gentle, but these strange, fey elflings were beyond him, especially the kingling who baffled his every move, far exceeding him already in wisdom, wrathful and coolly blank by turns.

"No.  No more of this 'my liege'.  The title, which you so unfittingly bestow upon me, belongs half to my birth-father who sails, we know not how, the heavens, and half to adar Gil-galad who has passed beyond us to the Halls of Awaiting.  You cannot make me him; I cannot be him.  I am no Gil-Estel, for hope has fled away in these lands."

"Elrond," the tutor reproved him, "you are a scion of the House of Finwë and you cannot do it injustice with your doubt.  These burdens belong to you alone…"

"The House of Finwë!" Elrond laughed caustically.  "Is it possible that I could do it injustice?  A line of kinslayers and fools, excepting the late lamented king, may Mandos release him soon."  He toyed with a quill, twisting it between his fingers until the fragile feather bent and broke beneath his touch.  He cast the fragments at the tiled floor and begun to tug angrily at his braids. "Sometimes I wonder whether I do more ill to it, or it to me."

"Yet it is your inheritance," Gelmir bent forward, speaking earnestly.  "You cannot forsake it…"

"Although I would…"

"…Whether you would or no.  This duty runs in your blood, and you will belong to its fate until your very death.  'Tis yours to bear."

"Then 'twould be better for me to die," Elrond spat bitterly, his young frame slumping.

"Say not so, Gil-estel, say not so."  The boy scowled at the title before the elder could prevent it from slipping between his lips.  "Your death would avail us naught."

"Would it not?" pondered the elfling.  "It seems to be that Elros would be a better king than me by far, and that nothing would be lost in my passing.  I am no Gil-galad, let alone Gil-estel.  There is no hope for these benighted people in the continued beating of my heart."

"You cannot die," Gelmir urged him.  "You cannot…"

"Leave me be, my lord.  Leave me be.  I wish for silence."

The tutor slipped from the room, casting one last glance back at his charge, who was now methodically shredding the crumpled genealogy, and looking at the rich tapestries with blinding hatred.

Elrond discarded the ruined document and flung himself into the window seat, gazing out over the wind-swept yard to the bay beyond.  The hue of the lashed waves matched his eyes as exactly as the foul weather did his heart.

Ai… I should not have spoken as I did…  'Twas not befitting.  But then nothing is befitting.  Nothing can be done to make this wretched situation any the better.  We will all fall into darkness and perish.  The light is already lost… His wrath was not assuaged, and, fuelled by his melancholy wonderings, he swung himself to the floor and made his way through the corridors.  The Elves who bowed courteously to him shrank back, their smiles fading on their lips, at the sullen storm brewing in their young king's face. ~*~ "I perceive this is of your doing." Galadriel lifted her head from the neatly stacked papers and looked at him inquiringly. "What is of my doing?" "This … this epessë … Gil-estel I have heard myself called by those who know no better," he said with a scowl. "The people need hope." The lady laid down her quill and regarded him over steepled hands. "I cannot give it to them.  If you want a figurehead, why do you not take up the crown?" "I am of the House of Finarfin; you of that of Fingolfin.  You are the rightful king." "I am peredhil," he replied scornfully, "and of more Houses than years.  There is nothing in me that is befitting of this title." "And your many Houses make your more the leader than I." "Then have a child.  He could lead all Middle-earth better than I, with the blood of Lord Celeborn in his veins." "It is not time."  She did not know where that enigmatic thought had come from, for she had not pondered it before.  "And besides, you are the rightful king of the Noldor in Middle-earth.  It is not yours to decide whether you the position suits you.  It is yours whether you will it or no." "I cannot take his place."  Elrond sank into the spare chair, covering his face with his hands.  "Adar would have been a legend if he had but lived."  He lifted the mithril circlet from his head and twirled it between his hands, tracing the abstract pattern absent-mindedly.  "I have no hope to give to Middle-earth, for I have none for myself." So very young he looked then, tears bright in his moonlit eyes, the heavy robes of his office drooping off slender shoulders; Galadriel almost reached out to smooth his ebon locks back, but some flicker of foresight prevented her. No comfort for this one, if he is to become what he will be "Think you that Ereinion had hope?  Turgon?  Fingon?  Fingolfin?  Nay, 'tis precisely because there is no hope, because hearts are cast low, that you must be our Gil-estel." "Gil-estel is a star, a Silmaril in the heavens, consecrated by the Valar," Elrond said sharply.  "I am but an Elf, and less than an Elf." "Nay: more.  Do you forget that the blood of Melian flows in your veins, truer mayhap than that of the Atani?" "How could I?" he asked wryly.  Not yet; he would not speak of the dreams yet.  Utumno, gleaming dark against the skies, and light before there were ever stars.  And soaring music which seared his very blood, a wrenching, screaming pain of delight, and there, there, on the very edge of being, a presence he could never quite grasp.  Ai, ai, thou who art more than all the Valar … ai, what is thy purpose in this, O Most Mighty? Not yet, for it was not his to tell, a terrible secret hidden deep in flesh and blood… "Yet, to the Elves who looked to Gil-galad with such surety, I am but an Edain child, young in years and poor in knowledge." 

"And thus it is that I name you Gil-estel, for they must find in that name the hope which is within you, although they see it not."

"You lie, although you know it not."  Elrond stood to leave, his countenance desolate, his eyes raking the neat shelves of books as if he might find some solution to the problem that tormented him therein.  His hands fell helplessly to his sides and he bowed his head in anguish.  "They speak the truth who despair.  There is no hope in me."

~*~

Elrond found his brother easily, although Gelmir had not known where to look.  He tramped over the tangled rocks, the hem of his robes trailing in the water, picking up traces of the slimy seaweed.  With a single smile, Elros dismissed the Edain children who had clustered around him.

For a long time the twins sat in silence.  The elder reached down to tickle an anemone, disregarding the stinging pain which shot through his finger.  The gentle ripples lapped at his hand, as he wafted it through the drifting green tendrils of weed.

"Think you that we are like this pool?" he asked at last.

"I do not understand."

"Locked away from what we might be, a shallow puddle in which the appearance of life is preserved, although the tide of things leaves it bereft of all hope, bereft of the sea to which it belongs," Elrond muttered.

"Yet it is so beautiful," Elros replied, smiling.  "So very short-lived, before the sea rushes in once more, yet so very beautiful, Gil-estel."

"Not you too," Elrond snapped, punching his brother none too likely.

"What would you prefer?  Gil-amarth?" the younger asked, levering himself upright and picking fragments of seashell out of his dark tresses.

"'Twould be more apt," his twin sighed.

"Oh really?  Then perhaps I should throw you in the sea, Gil-estel-amarth."  And with surprising strength, Elros hefted his brother into his arms.  With a few short strides, he was at the water's edge, the soft sand squelching under his bare toes.  Wading deeper into the sea, he dropped Elrond abruptly.

"I believe Feliathlion would say that was treason."  He surfaced, spluttering.

"Feliathlion says stealing your potatoes off your plate is treason," he laughed.

"And so it is."

"Even when you have no intention of eating them, my king?" Elros inquired sarcastically.

"Especially then."  Elrond trod water.  "Why are you not wearing these frustrating robes?  
  


"Because I am but the younger brother of the king, not the king himself, Gil-estel."

"I shall get you for that."  And before Elros could react, he threw himself at his twin, dunking him thoroughly in the seawater.

"Hey!  You son of an orc!" The elfling flicked his black hair out of his eyes.  "You will pay for that…"

As the elflings busied themselves with attempting to drown each other, a pair of sad green eyes watched from the shore.

"Aye, be children for the little space which fate allots you," Celeborn whispered, ignoring the sand clinging to the hem of his robes.  And, unbeknownst to all, a solitary figure on the far shore echoed his sentiments, looking out over the lonely waste of ocean.  He was not welcome on the Isle of Balar, and he knew it full well, yet still he watched for the elflings.  Grey eyes prickled with tears, soft with sorrow.

"Be safe, my sons.  Be safe."

TBC

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Translations:

Gil-amarth – star of doom.


	4. Gifts

                                                                                                            **Lost Youth**

**Chapter Four**

Thanks to Nemis for betaing this, and for help with the Quenya.

I'm going to try a little of Kalurien's reverse psychology here: No, no, of course I don't want you to review.  It's never occurred to me that you might review…

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Elrond slumped lower into the throne, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.  His slender fingers worried restlessly with a loose thread as he wondered idly how many of the brilliant silver-gilt stars he could unravel before the Dwarves could finish their stilted presentation.  With a sigh, he realised that it would be enough to clothe the heavens in splendour and bathe the earth with light.  For a species renowned as taciturn, the Naugrim could be remarkably long-winded when the fancy took them.

The distant look in the eyes of the Lady Protector suggested that even she was paying scant attention, instead preferring to calm her husband, who was clenching and unclenching his fists within his voluminous sleeves, the name of Doriath hovering on his lips.

The king pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, attempting to ward off the incipient headache, the dull sense of unease which had plagued him since he had arisen that morn.  Try as he might, his attention would not heed his best efforts and persisted in wandering.  Restlessly, he counted the number of Elves thronging the room.  Really, he should have persuaded Elros to take his place, but the prince had scowled at him most uncharacteristically, and mumbled something about fishing nets and the need to repair the rigging of Círdan's ship before escaping into the bright sunlight.  He, however, was trapped here, as trammelled by the raiment of his office as by the stiff custom of the court.  If anything, it seemed to grow more and more formal by the year, as if the people of Balar hoped to stave off the impending disaster with all this froth and flummery.

"…If you would but send troops to protect the convey-lines the we could have the metal ready for you.  As it is…"

"We have no such troops," Galadriel interjected smoothly.  "There is nothing we can do for you, Master Dwarf, nothing more than we have already done."

"I lower myself to plead with you, and you say me nay?" Ralin growled, his thick ginger moustache curled into a grimace.

"I was not aware that you were pleading."

"To an Elf, no less; to a slayer of my kin…"

"The Dwarves drew first blood in the deep halls of Menegroth." Celeborn's calm face was marred by an expression of deep hostility, and red spots danced in his cheeks.

"Enough." Elrond rose to his feet, drawing his robes tightly around himself to ward off the chill sea breezes sweeping through the open windows.  "We shall all fail and fall into darkness if we choose to ignore the realities of our situation.  To believe that either party is being deliberately obstructive avails us naught."

Ralin scowled and rested his hand on the butt of his axe, his stubby fingers tapping impatiently against the inlaid gemstones.

"However, we will have no army without new weapons, and no new weapons without the metals for which Durin's folk delve so valiantly.  Thus, if we are not to be caught asleep in our beds like children when the shadow comes upon us, we must agree to spare some of our scarce warriors to guard those who would aid us."

Celeborn looked as if he had just bitten into a particularly juicy apple only to find that it was actually a lemon.

"Have you any power in this matter, Elven King?" the Dwarf asked sceptically.  "'Twas my thought that you are but a babe in the reckoning of your people."

"Young is the head that bears the crown, but true flows the blood of his forefathers in his veins; and heaviest burdens are easiest borne by those from whom we least expect such valour," Galadriel answered enigmatically, moving to stand beside her ward.  Elrond shot her a grateful smile.

"Then it is done, Master Dwarf.  Twenty soldiers shall sail with you."

Ralin looked pleased beneath the encompassing carpet of his beard, yet the High King could not but hear his whispered aside to one of his companions.  "By the blood of Durin, did he have to mention that ruddy boat?" The Dwarf shuddered, and hunched his shoulders.

"What is next?"

An Elf in the garb of one of the Gondolindrim stepped forward and bowed profusely, his neatly braided silver locks almost sweeping the floor.  In his outstretched hands, he held a dagger, hilt first.  It was marvellously wrought, a true work of craftsmanship, a luminous sapphire gleaming amid the mithril, which was engraved with entwined oak leaves.  Elrond took it carefully, turning it over and over in his hands.  When he drew it from its scabbard the blade flashed, the intricately carved Quenya tengwar throwing silver sparks across the vaulted ceiling.

"I am honoured, my Lord…"

"Afilion, my liege."

"…My Lord Afilion.  But for what am I endowed with such a wondrous gift?"

"My liege, have you forgotten?" The Elf looked shocked.  "'Tis in honour of the day: the forty-ninth anniversary of your begetting."

"Oh… oh … I thank you for remembering when I did not." He flushed with chagrin.  So _that_ was why Elros had been so hostile: for in forgetting his own begetting day he had naturally forgotten that of his twin.  Afilion was considerably shorter than him, thin and wiry, with haunted eyes, and as he looked down into them, his own showing his acute discomfort, he caught something mirrored in those ancient, wordless depths… Bitterness?  Malice?  Triumph?  But before he could ponder upon it, 'twas all too late; too late for anything.  With surprising strength, the other gripped his wrist, and, while his muscles were still lax from shock, turned his extended hand against him, driving the wickedly sharp blade up between his ribs.  He felt metal grate against bone, tearing flesh in its relentless progress.  He staggered backwards, clawing at the protruding hilt.  He tried to pull it out, but he could not remember whether that would be his end, and anyway his hands no longer seemed to be under his control.

Dimly, he was aware of hoarse screams of rage and denial, of the horror-struck faces that seemed to whirl around him.  But it was all too far away and it mattered not.  He tottered forwards and caught himself against a pillar, even the chill marble seemingly warm against his out-flung left arm.  The fingers of his right hand curled loosely around the hilt, brushing against the burning stone which now seemed to be a ruby, so slicked was it with his blood.  He could not breathe, could not see as blinding light exploded behind his closed eyelids.  There was nothing, nothing at all.

So it ends thus.  Forgive me, Adar.  Forgive me.  And Elros … ai, brother-mine, I beg your mercy upon my memory: I should have given you a gift…

Indeed, it did seem to the assembled Elves that it would end there, in madness and blood, in darkness beneath the light of the day, and in the swift dispatch of their last chance beneath the blow of a fell gift.  They watched in abject horror as their Gil-estel heeled like a proud ship in a wrathful gale, his grey eyes clouding fast, blood sluicing across his tunic until the deep blue fabric was as black as night.  Only the stars of Ereinion Gil-galad, which he insisted upon wearing in the place of his own livery, shone incongruously yet as all light went out of their world.  

Galadriel tried to move, to reach out and steady her mortally wounded ward as he staggered towards the pillar, tiny whimpers of pain that he heard not escaping from his lips.  She would have done so, in both body and mind, but she found that 'twas as if the ice of the Helcaraxë had finally overwhelmed her, spreading through her bones and holding her in place.  And 'twas all too late.

Finally, it was Ralin who moved.  Tearing his axe violently free of its peace-bonds, he hurled himself at the assassin, his coarse russet braids flailing hither and thither, his gnarled face contorted with the rage of a thousand men.  With a battle-cry as ancient and deep as the mountain roots, he pinned the Elf to the tiled floor, raising his axe for that final, vengeful swing.  Almost unnoticed in the turmoil, Gil-estel slid to the floor in a crumpled heap, a crimson smear staining the pillar.

"Stop!" A voice bellowed from the doorway.  Afilion peered around his assailant's shoulder.  Perhaps _He_ had come and 'twould all end here.  The voices would cease and all would be silence once more.  He began to cackle mirthlessly his ruined voice rising in pitch and volume.

"Your doom lies not before you, impostor.  Watch your back, for soon you will follow your worthless brother-king beyond the Circles of Arda whither the ill-made souls of the Sickly go.  Little bastard halflings.  Your grandmother was Maeglin's by right, and no feckless manling should have taken her hand in wedlock.  'Tis reserved for Elf to take Elf to their marriage bed, and for Men to rut in the woods like the foul beasts they are."

Ralin's thick fingers loosened on his axe-shaft, and instead clamped around the Elf's neck, choking off his howled obscenities, his bitten and fire-hardened nails biting into the soft flesh, drawing deep red crescents over the pulsing jugular.

"Cease your babbling, Elf, or you will feel Dwarf-steel, and I shall cease it for you."

"Not yet." And all heads swivelled once more to gaze upon the tall, pale figure in a sea-stained work-tunic, dark hair unbound, trembling like a sapling before the first breath of winter, standing under the arch.  "For if my brother lives not, then my sword shall taste of this traitor before any, and it shall drink its fill."

Elros swayed, one hand raised in a defensive gesture.  "No!" His princely demeanour deserted him, and he was once more merely a lad, young in summers, salt-grimed and afraid.  He raced forward and dropped to his knees besides his brother's prone form.  A forgotten hank of greased rope slipped from his hands.  "Awake, Elrond, awake." He slid one hand under the bedraggled head, the other shaking his blood-drenched shoulder, but the king's eyes remained resolutely closed, his mouth agape and twisted with pain.  "You cannot be dead.  I know that you are not dead, for my heart beats yet."

Galadriel sank to her knees beside the peredhil, her ivory skirts trailing in the pooling blood.  Celeborn stood behind her, deathly pale.

"Nay, he lives yet, although I cannot say for how long."

"He will live," Elros ground out between clenched teeth.  "He will live, e'en if I have to extinguish the light of every soul in Balar to make it so."

As effortlessly as if he had been a tiny elfling, the Lady Protector hefted the slumped lad into her arms, and rose.  "The Halls of Healing.  And take this traitor to the cells."

~*~

Elrond wondered, with an incurious detachment, if this was what it had felt like when he and Elros had sat on their foster-father's chest, this merciless quelling of every breath before it even began…

"Gil-galad?"

But there was no response; no Star of Radiance gleamed suddenly in the swirling darkness.  He was as alone as ever with the distant pain and the seeping clamminess at his breast.  Not long now, surely 'twould not be long before the darkness claimed him forever.

But suddenly, slim hands crept down his chest, soothing the pain away.  He looked up and caught a glimpse of bitterly bright silver hair as a kiss was pressed to the tip of his ear.  He shivered in delight, and reached up to clasp the hands of the dream-maiden, the sight of whose face he had never been vouchsafed.  She was so very warm against him, so very real, and he sighed with pleasure.

"Ai, are you my fate come upon me?"

Her laughter drifted towards him as if from afar.  

"Await me in the newer light, melethron-nîn; in the newer light."

"What mean you?"

But she was gone, and the pain ripped through him, cascading through his veins and down his nerves.  Its vicious severity drew him inexorably back.

~*~

He awakened to the steady drip of water on his forehead, and the agonised roar of blood in his veins every time he tried to draw breath.  He opened his mouth to speak, but found his tongue adhered to the dry roof of his mouth.  A beaker was tipped obligingly against his lips and he swallowed greedily, not caring that stray rivulets poured down his face and soaked the bedclothes.

"Urgh," he groaned at last.

"Welcome back, Gil-estel."

"I know you." He tried to fumble for the memory, almost drowning in the fuzziness of his own thoughts.  The healer sat beside him, her golden hair caught back in a simple queue, the dark smudges beneath her eyes attesting to the long nights of her vigil.  "Who are you?  What is your name?"

"I…I am Araliel." He caught the slightest hesitation in her voice, the tremor that shook her capable hands, and wondered upon it.  "I found you reading my volumes of Quenya lore of healing one evening last autumn.

"So is this decision of yours to drown me with spongefuls of water your revenge?" He began to chuckle, and decided against it as the pain returned three-fold.

"You had a fever from your wound.  I was assuaging the last vestiges of it." She grinned appreciatively, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"My wound.  Ai… now I remember.  How long has it been?"

"A sennight yesterday," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Seven days?  Ai, Elros will never forgive me for ignoring his begetting day for seven days!" He propped himself up on his elbows, bracing himself to counter the pain of movement, but Araliel pressed him back down into the pillows.

"Move not, Gil-estel.  I wish to keep the pretty embroidery on your ribs in place, lest I be forced to ply my needle once more.  And see, Elros is here." She gestured to the figure who slumbered in a chair, his long legs akimbo, grey eyes staring almost wistfully at the ceiling.

"And the … the other?" Elrond asked after a long silence.

Araliel bowed her head.  "Dead."

"By whose hand?"

"Naught but his own.  He smashed the plate on which his dinner was conveyed to him, and slashed his throat with the shards."

"And do we know…?"

"A little, although more from the others of Gondolin than from him.  Once he was a valiant warrior, brave and true, and for his valour Sauron took him and inflicted horrendous torments upon him, before setting him loose with lies in his heart.  The other gleanings of the Hidden City thought him quieter and less eager for battle, as 'twas only to be expected, but knew naught of the blackness that dwelt within him.  The dagger was a true gift, Gil-estel, and given with the free hearts of your father's people, even if it was put to evil ends."

"Where is it?" he whispered.

"We will toss it in the sea…"

"Where is it?"

She rifled through the mass of unguents and herbs on the low table and retrieved a small cloth-wrapped bundle.  Pulling the coverings aside, she held the blade up to the light.

"It reads 'Utúlie'n aurë!  Aiya Eldalie, utúlie'n aurë!  I aara termára!'"

"May the dawning never be done," he repeated softly.

Elros stirred and murmured in his sleep.  He blinked lazily and then stared in amazement at his brother, who was very much alive and awake.

"Elrond!" He cast himself at his twin, who tried to restrain a shriek of pain at the sudden onslaught.  "You are here."

"And still I have not a begetting-day present for you.  I am surprised you have not tried to murder me yourself." His smile faded as the joke fell flat.

"Never say that." His twin gripped his shoulders harshly, his face bleak.  "Never say that.  When I felt… I nigh on fell from the rigging.  A pretty sight that would have made: one peredhel bleeding his life out on the council chamber floor, the other squashed to a pulp on Cirdan's wretched yew planking."

"Now who is jesting?" Elrond teased.

Their commotion had, it seemed, roused half the palace.  Ralin stomped through the door, his broad, homely face wrathful.

"What have I said about awakening the king, youngling?  Mahal himself will be here any moment to stop your elven gibbering with an anvil in the mouth…" He trailed off abruptly.  "Gil-estel!" 'Twas not in his nature to be emotionally eloquent at such times, and his deep voice was gruff in the attempt to conceal how much of an exception this was.  "Half the island believes you dead, and the other half knows not what to believe…"

"And what of you, Master Dwarf?" Elrond extended one trembling hand.  "What think you?"

"I think it would take a rock-fall to kill such a reckless idiot as yourself.  Did no one tell you that gifts are rarely well meant?"

"We should have a little more of the wisdom of Durin's folk at the court, and fewer carving knives," Araliel rejoined.  Once again Elrond detected that indecipherable catch in her melodious voice.

"They think me already dead?" Elrond turned the unsavoury idea over in his mind.

"Aye; you bled as much as a horse in an orc-hole," Ralin told him frankly.

"Then we will have to show them that I breathe yet." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed with desperate lassitude.

"My liege." Araliel's caustic tone belied the deference of her words.  "My liege, if you move, you may prove them right rather than wrong."

"Nonsense." He caught his lip between his teeth.  "I shall be well enough once I am upright.  This bed has seen enough of me, and I of it.  Brother mine, will you be so kind as to find me a robe?"

It seemed to take for ever to attire himself in the silvery under-tunic and the deep carmine velvet robe, and he barely restrained a scream of pain every time incautious fingers – usually his brother's – came into contact with the bandages binding his tender wound.  At last he was garbed in the splendid raiment that he so hated, the dagger slipped into the sash that was wound around his waist, more to keep his bandages in place than for any decorative purpose.

"Well, Master Ralin, may I have the shoulder of such a noble Dwarf?"

"Not yet.  Is it in the nature of the Elves to forget the most important things?"

Elrond looked confused, as the Dwarf buried his head in the cupboard, muttering about the peculiarity of the Valar in favouring such a lackadaisical race.

"Ah!" And he produced the crown, absent-mindedly smearing away the last traces of blood with his sleeve, and setting it firmly atop the Elf's fever-tousled hair.  "Now you may have my shoulder, Master Elf."

With one arm looped around his brother's neck and the other resting lightly on the sturdy shoulder of Aulë's child, the High King limped out into the corridor.  Immediately all eyes were turned to him, watching his every step, the every movement of his slender, graceful form.  He was acutely aware of the power they gifted to him in that moment: not the power that burns, but that which elevates.  He was nothing more nor less than the sum of their collective hopes and fears, which he could feel flooding through him.  He _was them.  _

A child, having scarce seven summers to her name, darted forward and kissed his hand.  He blushed fervidly, remembering a stolen moment of time, between one heartbeat and the next, when he and his brother, the same age then as she was now, had held Maglor's hands tightly, gazing up at the star-splashed heavens.

Galadriel emerged from her chambers, rubbing blearily at her blue eyes, and it occurred to him that he had never before seen her in the slightest discomposed.  But now she looked amazed, and he grinned ruefully at her.

Slowly, leaning ever harder on Ralin's stocky frame, he made his way out into the courtyard and, squeezing the shoulders of his supports one last time, released them, clambering up onto the mounting-block.  He looked down at the sea of expectant faces, and raised his own to the afternoon sun, saluting Arien with one raised hand.

"We have seen the power that the Shadow had at its command, to corrupt the hearts and minds of the wisest among us," he began, feeling the power surging within him.  "Yet, for all that, it did not prevail, and hope remains within us.  I live yet, and Balar lives yet, and we shall endure from Age to Age.  I am Elrond Gil-estel, and I plead with you to have hope in these dying days."

And with those simple words he felt the full weight of his ancestry, of blood and of faith, fall upon him.  The crowd roared its approval, and he was glad that they did not chose to see the trickle of blood which streamed down his chin where he had bitten his lip clean through in the effort to quell the pain rising within him.  He felt himself grow weak and dizzy, the cheers fading away under the onslaught of tumultuous blood.

"Well done, Master Elf." Ralin stood beside him. 

"And know you will go back to bed, pen tithen," Galadriel added, smoothing her skirts.

"But…"

"Bed, child."

And so he went, more the High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth than ever before.

TBC

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Mahal – the Dwarves name for Aulë.

Pen tithen – little one.

Melethron-nîn – my lover.

Utúlie'n aurë!  Aiya Eldalie, utúlie'n aurë!  I aara termára! – (Quenya)  - 'The day has come!  Behold, people of the Eldar, the day has come!  May the dawning never be done!'  (The first part is paraphrased from Fingon's battle-cry at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad).

*smirks as she watches you wonder who the hell Araliel is*


	5. Responsibility

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Lost Youth

Chapter Five

Thanks to **Nemis** for betaing this.

Sorry that it's been such a long wait.

__

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The heather whipped hither and thither by the fierce gusts of the east wind. The rank stench of death, of putrefying flesh, stone dust and bubbling sulphur bogs; the bitter twist of old fear. A fist of smoke rising high into the air, towering over the mountains, ominous and billowing, reaching towards him, grasping, seeking. His heart leaden in his chest, his boots clogged with thick mud, rooting him to the spot. Waiting, simply waiting, while the filth oozed up between his toes, impenetrable, thick as mortal night.

And then hands, warm against his chilled skin, small and soft; perfect almond-shaped nails burying themselves in the wretched earth digging his feet free, dragging his legs up by the bootlaces. Muddied hands, now little more than paws, cupping his face, smoothing away the trenches scored by frustration and fear.

A finger pressed to his lips, and a fleeting kiss.

"Wait."

And she was gone.

Elrond awoke abruptly in the sepulchral pre-dawn light, his hands clenched in his sheets, his whole body alive with sensation. Slowly, he prized his fingers free, trying desperately to steady his erratic breathing. He blinked at the ceiling, not even sure why he had awoken this early, knowing only the dream-maiden's touch. And then it came back to him, and he stiffened unconsciously.

Today. Today he would become… Today the full weight of Gil-galad's crown would come to rest upon his head, and he knew that he was not ready. He knew that he could no more do this than he could walk barefoot over red-hot coals. Before, he had had the liberty to learn, to be merely a figurehead, to show bravery without actually being brave. Now, it must be real, and his heart was filled with fear.

The young king scrubbed his hand across his mouth as if to wipe away some foul taste, and sat bolt upright in the half-light. On the other side of the room in which he had spent his last night, there was a muffled complaint; the dark lump under the covers shifted and cursed, and then pulled a feather pillow over its head. Elrond smiled a little and swung his legs over the side of the bed, working the knots out of his shoulders and his lanky legs. Moving through the shadows, he peered at his reflection in the mirror. Dark hair shrouding a pale face scarce visible in his early light. Gangly adolescent limbs sprouting wildly from the cuffs and hem of his dressing gown, still only approaching the muscularity of adulthood. Long slender fingers like shafts of light twitching nervously against the heavy brocade. Large, frightened eyes shining back at him.

He turned away, one hand touching his temples to ward off his incipient headache. He could never be Ereinion Gil-galad, and to his own eyes seemed but a pale facsimile of his foster-father, peredhel and younger even than the springy pines that guarded the long path up from the seashore. His tongue seemed thick and swollen, too large for his mouth, his throat parched, and his legs boneless. 

Somehow, although he knew not how, he gathered up enough wits to steer himself to the bathing chambers. The hot water seethed and roiled about him, flushing his skin a pale pink as he dunked his head, surfacing in a spray of pine-scented droplets. He floated on his back, absent-mindedly watching the steam curl in abstract patterns above him, listening to the dull beat of his heart in his ears and remembering his dream. A small smile curved his lips, and he swirled the water about him with one hand. When the heat was no longer bearable, he heaved himself from the rippling pool and skidded across the tiles. He paused on the brink of the next pool, shivering slightly in anticipation and braced himself for what was to come. Inhaling deeply, he lanced forward through the brightly-lit air, cleaving the surface of the water with a smooth stroke. The waters scythed away from him, lapping noisily at the edge of the pool; the sudden silence rang in his ears. Down, and down again with broad unfaltering strokes, until he could swim sinuously along the bottom with one hand trailing across the smooth marble, his lips compressed into a tight line, lungs burning for air.

He broke the surface spluttering and gasping, his face blue with cold, his teeth chattering. The air stung icily on his dampened face as he swam towards the shallower parts. Grappling blindly for the scrubbing brush, he soaped his hair, hissing as he re-submerged his head. The bristles were rough against his skin, harshly working the lavender soap into a lather, raising a pink flush along his arms and down his back in wide stripes. Goosebumps pricked his flesh as he dunked himself again and again, hoping to find in the physical extreme some measure of relief from the butterflies causing havoc in the pit of his stomach.

Squeezing the water from his sodden hair, he waded towards the side, and was brought up short by a pair of feet in soft slippers blocking his route. Elros stood on the side, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning widely. "Well." The younger peredhel settled himself down on the edge of the pool, his feet tucked up underneath him and the hem of his dressing gown dangling carelessly in the water. "So here we are: the day of your glory, Gil-Estel. The idea of your sovereign will being done without let or hindrance leaves me bereft of my wits, gwanur-nín."

Elrond scowled at his brother's harsh-voiced teasing. He lifted one hand in mute warning; it trembled with nerves. He turned away, his jaw set, his lips grey. Death was in his eyes, and sorrow, old pain and new. His movements were uncharacteristically jerky as he clambered from the pool, wrapping himself in a thick towel as if in mithril armour.

"Cannot you not see?" he began in a clipped voice, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. "Can it be that you cannot see, brother-mine? I have no sovereign power; my every breath, the last beat of my heart even, are not my own. Destined darkness looms large, and here I stand, contending against it, yet knowing that I strive in vain. This is no power to be wished for, no gilded throne of pampered princes to watch with laughing eye the merry dance and dancers." His voice climbed hoarsely, ragged with emotion. "No death can be more certain than that to which I go. Will it please you then to know that when I, in Mandos' keeping, await a newer dawn, my fated crown shall be yours to hold and bear, my burdens yours with my out-spilled blood?"

Elros' face softened almost imperceptibly, and some inkling of regret at his hasty words penetrated his consciousness. Impulsively, he stepped forward and, before Elrond could demur, wrapped him in a bear hug. Slowly, the elder twin's hands fell in surrender and he returned the embrace tentatively.

"Come on." Elros prodded him back to awareness. "I do not wish to be subjected to the scathing glances of half the world when my brother arrives at his acclamation clad only in a towel." His twin chuckled weakly, but followed him, padding softly through the still-silent corridors, leaving only a trail of water droplets behind him.

~*~

"Just stand still!" Elros grasped his brother's shoulders and forced him into immobility. The young king opened his mouth to remonstrate, but his twin waved a hairbrush threateningly in his face and he gave in, albeit reluctantly.

"'Tis not right," he murmured, tilting his head obligingly as his brother tugged the collar of his robe this way and that. 

Elros flung his hands into the air in a gesture of exaggerated exasperation. He paced the room angrily, his own robes flapping around his feet, snapping to and fro. Elrond craned his head over his shoulder in an attempt to watch his frantic movements, and shifted uneasily in his flowing formal attire. Much though he was accustomed to wearing such robes, he was not used to these, chosen as they were to match his own colours, the blue and silver and grey of Eärendil's line. His eyes drifting away from his impatient brother, he gazed a little wistfully at the star-broidered mantle lying discarded across his bed.

"Do not speak so," the younger peredhel said at last, wheeling to face his twin. "Neither you nor I do any dishonour to Adar Gil-galad this day, and yet if we sally forth half-hidden in borrowed livery, we will dishonour him and Adar both. The same malicious whispers reached your ears as mine, when the folk of Hithlum spoke, not knowing that we listened: that we were but nothings among the blood-kin of Finwë, half-bred brats of Moriquende princelings. Would you have it said that Adar Gil-galad did himself and his people a disservice when he took us in? Would you have it said that 'twas only by that that the crown came to you? Would you thus deprive our people of their rightful king, e'en before you step to the throne?"

"Aye, I know. There is no need to go on." Elrond ducked his head, biting his lip. He did know. He had rehearsed these very same arguments to himself the previous night, staring at the ceiling before sleep took him. And yet then they had not seemed to have the weight of truth they had now; he had been afraid, and turned back before the intimations that clouded the darkness before him. It had still felt like a betrayal to wear his colours on this day, as if he were usurping a throne which was not yet empty. He straightened almost imperceptibly. 'Twas not his to choose whether he would go forth from this chamber this day or no; 'twas not his to choose whether he would sit on the throne or no. There was no other who would do this; no other who would take up the crown and lead where others had to follow, to Angband and beyond. This was his alone; there was no other to share the burden with, not even his brother, no matter how much it bowed his shoulders and pained his heart. Gil-galad was gone, his fëa fled beyond the sea, his hroa broken. He was the only one left; he was alone.

Elrond lifted his head and smiled wanly at his brother. "Do your worst with these wretched fripperies."

Elros grinned back, not entirely sure that his twin's black mood had lifted, but more than a little glad that it seemed to have done so, and handed him the wide sash that bound his robes at the waist. The elder shrugged into his heavy velvet mantle, draping it in smooth lines about himself, the broad cuffs turned back, their grey silk touched with gold in the morning light.

Finally satisfied with each other's appearance, they made their way to the outer room and settled down to wait. While Elros lounged deep in his seat, Elrond shuffled restlessly, his fingers tapping out an impatient tattoo on the carved wood. When the knock on the door came, he was surprised to note that his own voice, raised in response, barely seemed to tremble at all.

Círdan entered looking incongruous and decidedly uncomfortable in his formal clothing, his mariner's rolling gait modified to a stiff-legged walk. A smile creased his weather-beaten face beneath his silver beard and he nodded abruptly in approval. "It will be well."

Behind him stood Galadriel and Celeborn. The Lady Protector was clad in white as was her wont, in damasked silk of a subtle brilliance; today the arms of Finarfin's House were woven into the cloth on one shoulder. Her fingers just touched those of her husband by her side; her face was impassive, her eyes unreadable. She embraced the peredhel briefly; her lips were cold against his cheek. "What is yet to come will come. Although hope is dim, it may yet be that newer hope already grows unseen." Galadriel drew back and smoothed the last creases from his robes. "Are you ready?"

"Not in the slightest." But he smiled wryly, squaring his shoulders. Accompanied by the rustle of rich fabrics, his heart beating painfully in his throat, he stepped slowly forward, through the doorway into the corridor. Behind him, he dimly heard the soft whisper of cloth as Elros took Galadriel's arm, and, behind them, Círdan and Celeborn fell into step.

The king's footfalls echoed hollowly on the marble, chipped here and there from long years in which all effort, all skill went to the forging of weapons. The palace seemed deserted, no one moved in the corridors or bustled around the rooms. All was silent except for a distant buzzing, a half-heard murmur resounding through the very stone.

Elrond tensed, squaring his shoulders and swallowing convulsively. The midwinter sun slanted through the windows, casting dustily pale beams of light across their hair as they passed. The buzzing grew louder, almost feverish now. Before them was a massive pair of ironbound oak doors barring the passageway to the great hall. With a pitiful squeak of tortured metal, the dull crunch of wood and stone coming into unwonted contact, they swung open, revealing the corridor beyond. Rank upon serried rank of Elves were packed into the confined space, crammed one against another from wall to wall, pressing up against the high archway at the far end. Beyond, in the great hall, there appeared to be no space at all that went unoccupied, face after face peering over heads and round pillars. Here were the Gondolindrim and the Doriathrim rubbing shoulders; here the last gleanings of Nargothrond and Sirion; the Noldorin exiles alongside their Sindarin brethren from the woods of Beleriand. Fearful necessity was their only bond, and now this boy-king who stood swaying with nerves as he gazed upon them. As one, as if they sensed his agitated stare, they turned, a brightly hued throng in all the colours of the Houses of the Hither Lands, scarlet as red as blood, soft green, burning silver… As one, they smiled, their voices raised in a cheer of acclamation.

Elros slapped his brother's shoulder in support, and then they stepped forward. The crowd parted before them, opening a narrow path amid rustling fabrics, amid appraising eyes. The vaulted ceiling seemed very far away when they stepped out into the hall, the banners whispering and floating in a light breeze. 

Slowly, so very slowly, the king made his way between the Elves pressing in on every side, acutely aware of his every step. His jaw already ached from keeping his smile fixed in place. Finally, the throne was before him, Araliel the healer to one side, gowned in green velvet, smirking at him. He smiled a little more freely, glad to see a familiar face, but the next moment, as Galadriel moved up to stand beside him, she had paled. Glancing sideways, Elrond saw that her wide, staring eyes were fixed on the arms embroidered on the Lady Protector's shoulder. He put out a hand to steady her, but she shrugged it away, shaking her head vigorously. "'Tis nothing."

Confused, he raised a quizzical eyebrow, but she would have none of it.

"There are matters of import at hand; do not waste your time on this."

Moving with a studied grace despite his conviction that he would collapse, Elrond Gil-Estel knelt before the assemblage, his night-dark hair streaming around his face. His starlit grey eyes were very bright, his jaw set and grim. He bowed his head to the people who were entrusted to his care.

Elros stepped forward, and in his hands was the crown that his brother had worn since Gil-galad's death. His pace was measured, his face unusually sombre. He held the circlet up for all to see, and then lowered it carefully onto the king's head, gleaming bright against the darkness. Only his brother could see that his hands were trembling. The younger twin spoke in a low voice, yet it carried to the furthest corners of the room. "Here is your king. King he has been; king and leader shall he be if you will it. Will you take him?"

The roar was deafening, torn from a thousand throats at once, resounding through the empty corridors and out, out to the sea beyond. It rippled the banners and startled the wheeling gulls.

Elrond Gil-Estel rose to his feet, a tall, wan figure with burning eyes. The crowd fell silent.

"I thank you now for this trust and pray that it shall be repaid." It seemed almost impossible that he would be able to speak, such was the fervour with which his heart beat in his throat. "Today is not a day for celebration. Too many have died to bring us here; too many of us have lost all we had. We stand on the brink of a precipice. We know not what we must do if we are not to fall, only that we must not fall. And yet, for the memory of those who have died, and for the sake of those who live still, we shall not fall, but rise again. Beyond the darkest night, we shall prevail, and the light lit in us shall burn forever."

He exhaled in relief, trembling fitfully as the applause swelled and diminished around him. Almost unnoticed, Galadriel surrendered the seal to him with a formal curtsey. One by one, various representatives of the Elven kindred stepped forward and swore fealty to him. Last of all there was a tall Elf, Noldorin dark under his plain hooded cloak. He wore no festive finery and exuded the faint waft of horses and damp woodlands. When he extended one hand in a salute, it could be seen that his forearm was riddled with old scars, the mementos of battles layered one upon the other. He did not kneel, but simply held out a folded sheet of parchment, clean and crisp and butter-soft. "My lord bade me to give this to you, and to urge you to read it. I am to tell you that there is no matter more serious than this."

Elrond accepted the letter, and turned it over to break the seal. In his haste to stifle his cry of surprise, he bit down on his tongue until he tasted salt and iron. The heavy red wax was imprinted with the arms of Maglor, son of Fëanor. His hand crept to the hilt of his sword, his eyes bright with suspicion, but he broke the seal, hearing the dull crack of the brittle wax as if a thunderbolt overhead. The handwriting was as beautiful as ever, slender simple letters in the hand of a craftsman. As tiny elflings, he and his brother had spent hour upon hour tracing the graceful tengwar with jam-smeared fingertips.

__

"They always come when you expect it least. Stay close and be careful, pityonya. Always be careful. Kanafinwë Makalaurë."

There was a strange tightness in his throat as he passed the letter to his brother.

Celeborn's eyes were as ice. "Is this a threat?"

"Nay." Elrond swallowed painfully. "'Tis a warning, 'tis true, but not of any further ill deeds on the part of the kinslayers, but of the movements of the Enemy." Old sorrow welled up within him; he had heard those words long ago, on a starless night, huddled by a smoking fire amid the dripping trees. Battle-strengthened arms blocked his escape into the dark forest, holding him close. A golden voice whispered in his ear, promising him that no ill would come to him if he but stayed close. And here were the words again, echoing across the years. He looked to Elros, and saw that his eyes too were bleak.

~*~

The feasting lasted long into the night, the fires burning high in the fireplaces. Hearts were lightened for a while by the candlelit celebrations. Amidst this all, the peredhil were still and silent, caught up in melancholy memory. Three princes of the Noldor had been as fathers to them, yet none remained to guide them in this dark hour. Thus it was that they were not surprised when Galadriel informed them that she and her husband would sail for the mainland in a sennight. They bowed their heads, and murmured their gracious thanks for so many long years, and were not at all surprised.

The past and the future were drifting ever closer together and they were trapped between in an ever narrowing now.

TBC.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Reviews are, as ever, most welcome.


	6. Lament of the Fall

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Lost Youth

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Chapter Six

Sorry for the very, very long wait, and thanks for the reviews.

Thanks and lots of chocolate to **Isis** for betaing this.

They came in the darkest night, when Eärendil's star was veiled. The moon had gone down in the sea behind a roiling bank of cloud. It was the deepest part of winter; the ice crackled far to the North, and the biting wind slapped and gusted through the streets of Balar. They came in the long, slow hours before midnight, the black ships fleeting across the swelling seas from the North. The year was turning, fading towards the dawn of spring, but it seemed dark indeed, for all was silent amid the waves, and no star shone to illumine the night.

Never before had the Enemy waged war by sea upon the free peoples, but here Balar stood among the waves, an affront to his burgeoning power, the last beacon in the night. And so they came, the cruel Men who had forsaken their kin, and the orcs, and with them a great host of the fire-drakes of Angband, their eyes sparking with malice in the night. Their wings were darker than the grief, the sound a leathery creaking amidst the silence, and their breath was a foul stench above the seas.

Long had the master of deceits plotted this in the dark caverns of his pernicious greed, perceiving, or so he thought, that the time was ripe. For such was the folly of his pride that he deemed that the power of Ulmo and all his people was withdrawn from the waters. And he remembered the fair singing of Lúthien, and the bravery of Beren, and his hatred for the peredhil consumed him.

So, seeking to end the challenge to his dominion in the lands of Middle-earth, and desiring to bring to its final fruition his overweening hatred, he had dispatched his fleet. Now, they drew near to Balar, bleak prows scything the gelid waves, sails creaking and soughing before the wind.

Hope was dim indeed.

Elrond stretched, wincing as the movement tensed weary muscles. The nib of his pen hovered with a dull, insectile laziness, weaving backwards and forwards above the parchment. The candlelight glinted briefly in his eyes, before he bowed his head once more. But all his determination counted for as little as the frenetic sword work of the morning; he could not banish the restlessness which dwelt behind his eyes. All this day and the last he had suffered thus, neither eating, nor allowing himself the sleep his Edain heritage demanded. He knew without asking that his brother, too, suffered something of the sort, although not of the same order. As the hours had toiled slowly by, he had plumbed the depths of grief, never knowing why. His gaze was restless, even now, in the darting candlelight of the deeps of the night, and not all the will of his mind could force it to settle. Fear-tipped lances of pain impaled him, transfixing his stumbling heart.

He could not think; he could not feel…

The sweet agony of the Eldar in all things passing assailed him, and he thought on the leaden grey skies of Balar, the warmth of its fires, the solemn song of the seas.

A cold hand clenched about him, and he sprang upright, his hands white-knuckled fists against the edge of the desk. The crown, unheeded, spun across the floor, skittered under the edge of a tapestry, and came to rest in the darkest corner.

The chink as it hit the plastered wall startled him from his reverie. He blinked, startled to find himself as he was, one hand raised to his throat in a gesture of warning. Slowly, he uncurled the grasping fingers and let the hand fall to his side. There was nothing to be won by these megrims, nothing of gain to be found in their dread passage.

The chill wind from the sea, smelling of seaweed and stale, salt-stained sand, curled round him, lifting strands of dark hair in its phantom grasp. He inhaled deeply, drawing the familiar scents into himself, letting himself float upon them as a gull upon the rising airs. With shaking hand he poured himself a goblet of wine, grimacing at the honeyed sweetness, and stared into the distance, willing his heart to calm. But the dull dread persisted, as a night-fear which far outlives the dreams which spawn it. His hand trembled as a spasm of fear shot through him, and a single drop of wine spilt and fell to rest against the pallid skin of his hand. Blood-red, it shivered in the candlelight.

He stared at it for a long moment, watching the play of the light in its darkness. Clearly now, he could hear the beating of his own heart, even above the gusting of the winds. It seemed to race, and then still, quieter and quieter until there was naught but the hissing of the seas and the rhythmic flap of the curtains at the open window.

The shout, when it came, almost felled him.

He blinked, startled, dashing the wine from his hand.

"Elrond!" Elros stood at the open window, clutching a handful of velvet curtain in each hand. "Come quickly!"

Some shadow of agitation fluttered in his face, darkening his eyes.

"What?" Elrond straightened slowly, swallowing against the nausea which threatened to overwhelm him.

"I do not know." Elros sighed, shaking his head. "There is something in the air, and..."

"And?"

"Lights; lights out at sea."

The twisted skein of his thoughts, a tapestry woven of mist, hooked but by the finest threads to all that was real and true, suddenly solidified, crystallised. His thoughts were no longer tangled, no longer composed of mist and thread, but a thing dread and high, hard and cold as the peak of Oiolossë.

He moved forward at a run, and Elros recoiled to see his eyes. He scarcely noticed as he covered the balcony in one leaping stride, and set one foot upon the balustrade. With a whisper of sound, he reached the sloping roof of the palace. No consciousness attended him, as the sharp, iced edges of the slates ripped at the palms of his hands. The pungent scent of the moss stung his nostrils, and he paid it little need. Eyes wide with fear, he stopped, one hand braced against the ridge, his feet set lightly on the slick tiles. He turned into the seeking wind, and gazed out to sea.

And he saw them, the burning brands speckling the sea like pox marks, limning the shore with the delicate strokes of an artist's pen. He could smell the burning pitch, the reek of blood and darkness about them.

And then the dragon called aloud, ripping the sky asunder. The heart that had frozen in his chest thawed again and beat with a sudden fury. His gaze seemed to pierce the lowering skies, and for a moment, he caught the eyes of the beast in his thrall. Backwards and forwards they struggled, the circling, screaming beast, and the slender prince of the Eldar swaying on the roof. His hands clutched frantically at the air, long fingers flexing with pain, but his gaze was sharp and steady.

The wind tugged at the great beast's pinions, tugging it away to the West, spiralling out over the sea, but it fought the wind, the leathern skin stretched taut with the effort. For a moment, the force of its anger, its hatred was elsewhere, and Elrond sagged, his tall frame slumping towards the roof, caught precariously over a crushing drop, even while his mind reeled with gladness. But again it came at him again, and the sound of its wings was deafening, even above the storm, its talons rending the bitter air. Its eyes glittered, multifaceted in the dim light, glowing with a sullen scarlet fire, and its cry was terrible indeed. But for all that, he did not falter, and the Music was louder yet in his ears, a song he could not deny.

Breath was an impossibility, thought but a far imagining. All that he was, all that he could be, all the might of Men and the wisdom of the Eldar was bent on this one task, this one cause, this one flame amidst the darkness. He felt as if his eyes themselves might shatter, such was the force of his will behind them. And he sang into the wind, not hearing the melody, not knowing the words, only that he sang, and that the song was worth itself. The wind seemed to caress him, curling round his fingertips, billowing through his hair like myriad needles piercing silk.

He could not remember anything but the touch of the wind, and the darkness, and the dragon's gaze upon him. The thick stench of its breath blanketed him, and still he struggled against it, vying spirit to spirit with the creature wheeling and soaring above him.

Tense agony crackled through him, and still he held its gaze, glazing silver to vermilion darkness. His mind ached with weariness, his heart with the pain of solitary strife, as he sought to hold the dragon's will in bond. Nearly it overcame him, nearly it seared him with fire visible and invisible, clamping his chest with bands of agony.

He trembled, his mind quailing back from the abyss which yawned before him, the darkness without name or reason which yearned for him. The song on his lips stuttered to a halt, ripped away by the ravening greed of the monster's maw.

He stretched out when hand in supplication, palm upraised.

The heavens opened, and it began to rain.

The dragon screeched in rage and anguish. Its serpentine neck writhed to and fro, and its flight faltered, its wings beating frantically at the sodden air. The creaking rhythm of its wings buffeted Elrond where he stood. He felt tears of agony and sorrow and anger mingle with the rain coursing down his cheeks, as he turned his face towards the lumbering monstrosity struggling in the air above him. Every fibre of his being ached, everything that he was stretched to its very utmost. A blast of hot air rocked him, and despair swelled within him, blacker and crueller than the night itself. With one last effort, he put forth all his will. The beast recoiled, losing its grip on the very air itself. For a long moment, it hung where it was, and then, with a thundering crash, it tumbled from the skies. The cobbles of the docks smouldered and cracked where it had fallen, but the dragon lay still and lifeless.

Exhausted, Elrond reeled, and nearly fell. A hand on his elbow stayed him; he had not even known his brother was with him. They shared a glance: the battle had not even begun.

They stumbled together to the edge of the roof, and looked down. The city was ablaze. Even as they watched, flame streaked through the skies. Fire arrows.

Ever after, the night would be a blur in memory, a dim shadow hovering on the edges of sight. Fragments of recollection torn asunder. The stench of burning cloth and seared stone. A child's cries, wild and high. The clash of blade on blade. A hound keening in the distance.

The weary ache of his muscles as his sword rose and fell, rose and fell. His brow was slick with blood and sweat. Somewhere, he had lost his heavy outer robes, and his tunic hung in tatters from his shoulders. Someone called to him in a clarion-clear voice, and he turned, half-blinded by the blood dripping in his eyes. A helm was crammed onto his head by ungentle hands, the nasal scraping his forehead. He grunted in thanks, but the Elf was already dead, split from navel to shoulder by a single stroke. Just in time, Elrond ducked, blocking the blow which threatened to decapitate him. His head rang with the force of the impact, but he braced himself against the wall, and pushed up, slowly, inexorably. The Man, as tall as he, bearded and muscled, more like an orc in face and figure than one of the Eruhíni, snarled at him through bared, crooked teeth.

With a wrench, he tore the broadsword free, and raised it in a flat-sided blow which would crush the elf-lord's skull.

And screamed silently, blood burbling from his open mouth. The dagger of the Gondolindrim had found its mark in his belly. He fell, and Elrond pulled his blade from the convulsing body. Sweat and blood and rain and tears streaked his face under the helm; his dark hair clung to his skull.

Dimly, he was aware of Elros by his side, of his twin screaming something, gesturing wildly with the crossbow he held. Startled, he looked up. Flames had engulfed the palace, tainted the night sky with a hideous crimson light. Even the rain, falling in driving sheets now, could not extinguish such flames; he could smell pitch on the wind. And at their backs, the city was in ruins, thick grey smoke billowing from the collapsing buildings. The dead littered the streets, blank eyes staring at the sky, at the night that had so betrayed them.

And of those who lived, many wandered unseeing amidst the fighting, their eyes as dead as those of the fallen. Those who yet fought, fought valiantly, but even as the guard of Turgon at the fall of Gondolin, without hope, without fear, for death was certain.

Panic, as yet more Men and orcs surged up from the harbour, clambering over the dead and dying, iron-heeled boots ringing on the cobblestones: the panic of those who have nowhere left to run. Even as he watched, one of the wanderers, a pale, thin-faced elleth, knelt, and prised a great, barbed scimitar from the clutching hands of a dying orc. She stood unsteadily, her eyes still vacant, and weighed the weapon in her hands for a heartbeat. Then, without warning, she lashed out, and neatly decapitated the Man who had crept closer in the flickering shadows of the burning buildings. For a moment, her face blazed with life, and then it was gone.

As if that had been some signal, and with a howl like unto that of a cornered beast, the bewildered populace turned as one on those who smote at them.

"To the king, to the king!" someone called, their voice hoarse and shrill with battle fever. A silken banner waved above the fray.

Elrond paused for breath as he fought on the waterfront, his feet sliding on the sea-slicked cobbles. Half the ships were foundering, holed beneath the waterline. Bodies bobbed on the tide, snarled in tangled ropes, entrapped in burning canvas.

The Elf cried out again, nearer now. "To the king!"

He evaded a lance at his throat, and his restless gaze found her at last: Araliel. At her back, a youngling of scarce thirty summers, his eyes bright with rage, held the banner high, the drenched scrap of fabric flapping forlornly. The healer held a bone saw in one hand, laying about her with ruthless abandon. The implement's wicked edge caught a thundering orc across the neck, neatly slitting it's throat from ear to ear. Hot blood sprayed forth, spattering the ground.

"My liege." She nodded curtly. Her skirts were hitched up to the knee, her legs criss-crossed with dozens of tiny wounds. Blood flowed freely from a scalp wound, darkening the pale gold of her hair. Her eyes burnt with an implacable hatred. "You must leave…"

"Nay." He shook his head vigorously. But whatever else he might have said was abruptly curtailed as a volley of arrows flew over head. For a moment, they both cringed: but these were not the black-fletched arrows of the Enemy, but the light, fine barbs of the Doriathrim, and, amongst them, the heavier crossbow bolts of Gondolin. They exchanged a brief, humourless smile for such mad bravery, and then plunged into the gathering storm of the battle.

Backwards and forwards it raged in a night which seemed without end. But not for one moment was the victory in doubt: it belonged, as it ever did, to those who followed the banner of Morgoth.

The banner wavered and fell, as the young Elf who bore it took an arrow through his heart. Elrond scrabbled for the heavy pole in the blood and the dirt, and raised it again with aching heart.

"Elros!" His twin was by his side. "Take them to the ships. The far haven is not yet under fire."

Elros looked as if he was about to protest, but their eyes locked, and his defiance fell away.

"Aye." And so he led the grim retreat, while the young king fought on, ever nigh unto the heart of the battle. His wits were dulled; he could not remember if he had fought for one hour, or for ten, only that fight he must.

There was a heavy rumbling, as if the very earth itself were protesting this night, and then the dwarven kindred of Ralin filed past, looking grim and strange in the uncertain light. Leaf mail coats, and broad-bladed axes they bore, and their anger was a terrible thing to behold. In their midst they carried a litter upon which their lord lay, Ralin, near to death now with the passing of mortal years, his beard grey and his face creased and ancient. Through the hue and cry of battle, he smiled at the elf-king. "You fight well, Gil-estel, but I fear this day's dawning shall see both our ends," he said, and spoke no more.

The sick knot of dread in the pit of his stomach threatened to overwhelm him, but he shook it away, and pressed on, the still centre of a whirling circle of steel. Fewer and fewer of his kindred now stood in the press of battle; it only fuelled his anger to know their deaths. He began to sing again, the beauty of his voice lost, but its power unfailing, and his enemies fell back before him.

The blow to his head caught him by surprise. He had not known that he had lost his helm until that moment, and, in the space between heartbeats, rued his carelessness, waiting for the next blow to fall.

"Accursed fool!"

He could not even muster the vestiges of surprise to find that his assailant's voice was feminine, soft-pitched beneath the pain and frustration. She took his collar in one hand, and began to drag him forcibly backwards, muttering under her breath. Rather distantly, he noticed that there was a lull in the battle, as if they awaited the wave which would break over them with terrible fury. Something hard clanked against his leg: a bone saw.

"Araliel!"

"Indeed," she croaked. "Must I march you to the ships?"

"I must…"

"You must nothing," she retorted sharply, twisting his collar in her hand. "The battle is lost, Gil-estel; Balar is no more, and soon they will come at us again."

"Then let me be there to face them!" He wrenched himself free.

"There is no one left alive there to protect. You cannot afford to die for naught, my king." She looked at him with eyes that seemed suddenly depthless with age. Abashed, he looked away.

"Aye, you have the right of it."

Somehow, they made it to the shore, where a dinghy, a fisherman's vessel, lay in the shadow of the cliffs. Stumbling and falling, they dragged it to the water's edge, and hauled at the oars, propelling the tiny craft through the swollen seas. All around them, the people of Balar struggled in the freezing water, piled into whatever would float and hold them. Again and again, Elrond and Araliel paused in their efforts to haul a straggler from the sea until their boat was laden down, and the gunwales dipped perilously closer to the waters. Briny winds lashed at them, and the sea howled around them.

They did not see the ship until it was almost on top of them. It sported no lights to declare its presence, and it rode the tide low in the water. But its proud stem bore the image of a swan in flight, and the ship smelt of fine timber, and the clean sea.

A cry went up from the deck, and a rope ladder was lowered. Hand over hand, they scaled the ladder, and Elrond went last of all, casting reluctant glances back at the boat which bobbed in the waves below him. When he made the deck, he almost turned back, but a pair of sea-roughened hands restrained him.

"You are no seaman, Elrond." Círdan grimaced through his beard. "Enough will drown here tonight, and I would not add you to the count." And so saying, he swung lightly over the rail, and dropped in one fluid movement to the boat far below.

Again and again, as the king peered into the dense night, shivering in his sodden and filthy clothes, the dinghy returned to disgorge its living cargo; again and again, he saw the sorrow etched deeper on Círdan's face. He set himself to tend the injured, moving amongst them together with Araliel, sewing and bandaging, doing all that could be done in such pitiable circumstances, nigh to weeping from his own helplessness.

But at last, there were no more to be found whom a healer's gift could save, and the peril of being discovered by the host of Morgoth grew too great to ignore. Only then did they raise their anchor, unfurling the sails just enough to run before the calming wind.

Other ships emerged from the darkness, ghosts fleeing before the might of Angband – perhaps six great ships in all, and a host of smaller vessels, scarcely seaworthy.

"Where do we have to go?" Círdan asked. Only now, as the lanterns were lit, could Elrond see that the elder Elf's silver hair was scorched nearly to his scalp, brittle and blackened.

A bitter smile curved the king's lips. "We have nowhere to go, my friend." He turned his face into the stinking wind. "We shall sail West."

A wordless quirk of the Shipwright's lips was all that betrayed his astonishment.

"Aye, I am a fool." Elrond laughed aloud. "But what other course should we set this morn? I would rather lie in sleep amidst the Enchanted Isles until the ending of the world, than bow as vassal and slave before the throne of Morgoth Bauglir."

And so they set sail into the utmost West, borne before the winds of Angband, perhaps two score of ships, all told.

Behind them, the sky began to lighten. But Elrond Gil-estel, his hair billowing around him like a ragged curtain, could not tell whether 'twas dawn or fire which brightened the sky of Middle-earth.

TBC

Eruhíni – children of Ilúvatar.


	7. Adrift

Lost Youth

Chapter Seven

Just a short chapter this time, but hopefully there'll be one each day this week.

Thanks to **Lalaith **and **Escapistone - ES, **I'm sorry that I didn't wait for your betaing. I promise I will tomorrow. ;)

This is for **Isis **with big hugs.

* * *

Ere the midday, the wind had fallen to nothing, the air was stale and still; naught but a brush of breath across the flapping sails. Becalmed, the fleet drifted this way and that, the sea glassy beneath them, the sky calm and blue above them; sharp of bitter ice. Only wisps of pale cloud drifting high above the sea sullied the immaculate vault.

The king went here and there among the people, face and frame wracked with pain, long-fingered, slender hands seeking out the wounds that battle had wrought upon flesh and blood. Sheets and jib-lines, tarred decks and sleek gunwales, hither and thither was his way bent, face pale and eyes dark, sleepless, hopeless. Always he looked to the West, raising his face to the breeze which ever and anon blew from out of the deepest seas; always he looked to the change in the winds, watching, waiting, even as his fingers fleeted before the faces of the sick and the dying.

A boat skimmed the sea, oars rising and falling.

The prince touched his shoulder lightly, imploringly, but he did not listen, shrugging the touch away. After a while, the prince left, his eyes cold and dark. He leant upon the rail, his gaze fixed upon the unchanging sea, the glaring light of midday glancing off his hair, his restless gaze fleeting across the waters. Little hope there seemed to him there; little hope that there might be some rising light beyond the darkness

The stench of death rose up from the hold, of too many bodies crammed too close together, too many bodies too close to death, Men and Elves and Dwarves alike, and still the king passed among them, his hair hanging in ragged tails about his shoulders, his shirt tattered, his eyes weary and bleak. Time and again he would tilt his head, as if listening, waiting, but no far-off call rang in his ears, and the harsh lines of weariness etched themselves deeper about the corners of his mouth.

It was nigh on dusk ere wind touched the face of the Shipwright, seated athwart the great beam, his gangling legs dangling idly against the slack canvas. He raised his chin, his expression sharply alert beneath the sea-wracked tangle of his beard. His hand clenched about the smooth wood of the yard arm, and his loud curses raised the heads of the survivors huddled on the decks far beneath.

Even as he slithered down the rigging, the heathline slipping between his fingers, the sails bellied, creaking and flapping before the rising wind. His feet touched the deck, and an anxious hand tugged at the sleeve of his salt-worn tunic. "Lord Círdan..." Araliel stared up at him with wide, curious eyes.

"Go to the king and tell him that the wind is rising." He shrugged away her hand, already turning to the sail hands who awaited his instructions. The tiller was beneath his hand, the line which had lashed it falling away. Still, the healer stood at the foot of the mast, her usual calm competence deadened, her face upturned to the breeze, bleakness drowning out the blue in her eyes. "Go now."

She shook her head as if to dispel some dark malaise, wiping her hands, still bloody with the fruits of vicious battle, on her grimed and tattered skirts. Gathering them up in tightly bunched fists, she made her way down the companionway, swaying with every step as the sea began to roll and swell beneath the ship.

It was no wind born of the weather of this world that blew that night, as dusk fell, and the first stars pricked the night sky with light.

"Elrond." She had found him in the darkest spaces of the hold, bent double beneath the shadow of one of the great timbers, his hands pressed to a sword wound that gaped beneath the flickering light of a lantern. The wood that formed the floor was a pale silvery grey, the shade of starlight shining above ancient woods, beautiful and seamless, so smooth that even the gaze seemed to roll off it. The light seemed to pierce, and, so piercing, return to the beholder a hundredfold, glimmering bright in hair and eyes, lending an unearthly glory to the most earthly face. And yet, for all that, it was as rank and dark as the lowest slave galley of Morgoth, the shadowed spaces between the massive bracing beams roiling with groaning pain, reeking with the stench of death. And in the midst of all this he knelt, as he had for hours passed. Since last she had seen him, someone had caught his dark hair back in a rough loop of leathern cord, and yet it but served to heighten the gaunt pallor of features. He looked as nigh unto death as the ailing figure beneath his touch. "Elrond…"

He raised his eyes enough to meet hers, and no more. His lips were utterly bloodless. "A moment, Araliel, but a moment and I shall be finished…."

She dropped to her knees beside him, and pressed her hand over his. "You are not needed here, but above decks the need is great. Even now the wind is rising. The hour of our doom grows near."

"The wind?" He drew his hand from beneath hers as if it burnt his very flesh. "Which way?" A nerve danced in his cheek. "Which way?"

She bowed her head, and she found the strength to raise it once more, her eyes were bright with tears. "From the West, my lord. The wind blows from the West, and it blows us to our doom."

What little colour there was drained from his face. His dark hair was a stark mass above his pallid skin, black as the unholy night, as darkness with neither sun nor moon nor stars. "I understand. At last, I think I understand." He rose slowly, his long legs unfolding beneath him. "Tend the wounded as best you may, my friend, and when the darkness comes, I beg you, do not be afeared." He bent and brushed a chaste kiss to her forehead, and was gone.

"Neither dawn nor darkness will bring my respite." But he did not hear her, and the Elf beneath her hands merely moaned with pain, his mind lost to speech and thought alike.

"Círdan?"

The Shipwright took the young king's arm and drew him near. "The wind…"

"Aye, I know." With his free hand, he loosed his hair to spill out in the hastening wind, a dark curtain swept back from his brow as he turned to face the utmost West. The last glimmer of light limned the horizon, the memory of the sun, more imagining than aught of solid truth. "And now I understand."

"Understand?" A moment of confusion riffled the Shipwright's calm.

"Aye. I am not made to leave the shores of the Hither Lands until my task is done and my labours ended. Whether it shall end well or ill lies but in my deciding, and in the power that is beyond this world, but I cannot leave. Give me a longboat, and I shall be away."

Círdan stared at him, all calm forgotten. "You are a fool or a knave to suggest such a thing, child."

A strange smile quirked Elrond's lips. "Most likely I am both, and yet this is the truest course I can steer. If, beyond all doubt, the light comes again, crown my brother, and take him as king in my place. May his realm last long and burn brightly."

Elros' head came up, and he gazed upon his twin as if he looked upon the force of madness itself. "I am not made to take your place, nor sit your seat."

"And thus you will sit it full well, my brother." He bent the full force of his sweet smile upon his brother, and upon the Shipwright who stared at him, his mouth dropped open in wonder and in horror. "A longboat, Círdan, that is all I ask."

"And I say you nay, king though you are. A boat I shall not give you, nor shall I permit you to pass into the East unless these few ships pass with you."

"And that I shall not allow," Elrond said, a bitter smile twisting his lips. He half-bowed, wincing as the movement tugged at sore muscles. "I owe you more than I can tell, my friend, and now I beg your forgiveness for that which I must steal from you." And, silently, he crumpled to the deck.

The flushed vigour seeping from his face, his eyes wide with fright, Elros lowered the sturdy length of timber. His hands trembled, and he dropped it abruptly, his gazed fixed upon his brother who lay insensate at his feet, his hands folded almost neatly at his sides. "I am sorry, gwanur-nín."

Círdan stepped around the body, his footing sure on the swaying decks, and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "That was well done, my friend."

"He will not forgive me."

"Perhaps." The Shipwright shrugged eloquently.

"What now is there for us to do?" Elros wrapped his arms tightly about his body, shivering as the wind whistled piercingly about him.

Círdan smiled, a strange, wry look beneath that deep beard. "The mast. We must lash him to the mast."

A choked laugh escaped the younger twin, a burble of amusement and despair alike. "I feel as if we were caught in some poet's tale."

"And so we are like to be if there is no one to tend the rudder." Círdan scowled ferociously at the steersman, and the young Elf of the Falathrim returned his attention to his task, one slender hand guiding the tiller.

While his liegemen lashed the High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth to the mast, binding cords about his knees and chest, Shipwright and prince gazed into the West, into the teeth of the wind which was even now blowing up before them.

"This is no weather I have ever seen," Elros muttered, his fingers tapping out a restless rhythm.

"Nor I," Círdan admitted slowly. "This is no weather born of this world. I durst not say from whence it came, for it defeats even my years to encompass such power as is in this night."

And so they beat a course into the West, tacking against the rising wind, foam frothing at prow and streaming at stern. Grey mist enveloped them and billowed away in great streamers, and dolphins leapt and sang in the seas before them. Waves broke on rocks that had not been there for a thousand years or more.

Some three hours before the pallid dawn of another winter's day, the mist broke entirely, and starlight streamed through undimmed. The foaming wave crests shone whitely as the brightest star shone down upon the fathomless wastes of the ocean.

The ships straggled vainly onwards, straining against the great strength of the sea. Their decks were awash, splashed with saltwater and the debris of the sea. The High King, but lately awakened, clung to the mast as if it were Telperion itself. Innumerable lacerations stung with the bite of the sea, and his drenched clothes lay plastered to his pasty skin, and still he strained against his bonds. Thus the starlight found him, falling full on his face, pale silver illumining his eyes.

One star shone brighter than all the rest, and the Elves clustered upon the deck cried aloud, their faces alight with wonder. Brighter and brighter it shone, a beacon in the darkness. Bright, brighter, brightest: more than silver this star shine. The waves sung with it and the air cried out with it. Terrible and wonderful it seemed, beyond Elf or Man to decipher, although those who had known the Lady Elwing whispered and huddled together in dark corners, their faces hidden from the light.

And, as the dawn came, the watch set upon the highest mast cried out, his voice high and hoarse with wonder.

Like wrath they came, the swan-prowed ships of the Teleri, fleeting across the face of the ocean. Bright were the colours which flew high upon their masts, and stern were the faces lined about their sides.

The host of the Valar had come.

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**Reviews **feed my muse.

gwanur-nín - my brother.


	8. Many Meetings

Lost Youth

Chapter Eight

Thanks to **Escapistone **for betaing this.

Again, for **Isis.** May all your Elves be Elrond.

**Reviews **are muse-friendly.

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Crowded close about the rail, eyes staring, the peoples of Middle-earth marvelled, aghast in wonder and in terror. Their hearts slowed, and they clutched at one another, grasping hands seeking the reality of the world, the surety of solid flesh. They were silent, and their hearts, speeding once more beneath the reckless spur of fear, whispered and sighed in urgent rhythm beneath the sudden silence. The wind fell, and waves lapped at the ships, a restless tap of watery hands. A dolphin breached, foaming water spilling into the dark sky. A slack line slapped restlessly, its twisted length roiling and serpentine.

The High King worked frantically at his bonds, chaffing the salt-slicked rope against his wrists until his movements broke the skin and his fingers were scarlet with the trickling stream of his own blood. And yet his eyes were thoughtful, calm and even as a millpond on a day in midsummer when no wind blew. A dark bruise discoloured his forehead, and damp strands of hair fell unevenly in his eyes, and still he watched the fleet as it came upon them. Stars seemed to shine brightly in his fair countenance.

Great and terrible the fleet was in the cold, grey light ere the dawning, the swan-prows arching proudly across the dark seas. Hundreds of lanterns shone, their light pinioning the night with a hundred thousand lances. White-gold they shone, dimmed beneath that terrible starlight and the first faint hue of dawn, and yet they seemed to be very stars themselves, a bright constellation set against the darkness of the West.

Still, those who had fled from Balar were silent, and yet from the Valinorean host rose the sound of much singing, bright and joyful as silver trumpets, for all that they were armed and armoured for the deadly business of war. Slowly the great ships drew alongside the lesser, and the watchers marvelled at the artistry and majesty of them, each as their temper demanded. For the armada sent forth from out of the Utmost West blazed with gilded glory, a glory that almost the eyes could not bear, a wonder that the heart could scarce conceive.

At the prow of the flagship stood a great figure, tall and broad of chest, strong in thew and sinew. Dark of hair he was, and bright of eye. A cloak flew back from his shoulders, blue as the sky on a fair summer's day, and armour plate gleamed and glittered in the lantern light, engraved with many words that seemed to flow and shift as he moved. He bore no helm, and his hand rested upon the hilt of his broadsword. He was Eonw&235, herald of Manw&235, mighty amongst the ranks of the Maiar. Strength was in his arm; beauty was in his eye; and from his face shone out a great and golden light that was before the sun and the moon.

Ropes were cast from one ship to the next, binding them together. Círdan hurried to the gunwales, and the prince to his brother's side, fumbling with the water-tightened knots that fastened the king's hands.

For a moment, all eyes were elsewhere. A figure sprang across the ropes binding one ship unto another, lightly scaling the last few feet of netting. With an agile swing of one long leg, he leapt the railings and landed upon the deck. No Maia this, but one born of Elven kin. And yet his every movement spoke of vigour and of joy. His face was grim with the knowledge of war, but his eyes were bright, brimful of knowledge both of sorrow and things wondrous and high to behold. He wore light armour, little more than that of a common soldier in the armies of Men, and yet he had the easy faith of a great lord, a graceful fluidity that touched all who watched. A coat of arms was emblazoned upon the shield he carried slung across one arm. He wore no crown, but about his brow was bound a circlet of silver, wrought in the semblance of many leaves entwined. A smile touched his lips as he looked about him, and he tugged the billowing cloak tighter about his shoulders. His face, tilted slightly to one side as he examined the ship, was fine-boned, almost delicate, and yet great wisdom shone in those grey eyes, the eyes of one who has seen much and known much, and who still finds hope unshaken beyond the tremulous darkness.

"'Tis a dawn well met," he said at last, his voice soft and musical. He tucked his hands loosely in the sword belt. "I had forgotten how fair the seas of Middle-earth are beneath the sunrise."

As if in answer to some command no other heard, O n the Dwarf, Ralin's heir and but lately become the leader of his people, fell upon his knees, his face pallid and grey with seasickness, his brow bent almost to the wooden decking. What little of his face remained in sight twixt beard and timber was alight with a burning joy. On bent knee, he offered up his great war axe haft first.

The Elf blushed, his fair face flushing darkly crimson. "Arise, my friend. There is no need for this."

The Dwarf cocked his head, his dark beard bristling. "You were the friend of my fathers."

The Elf leant down and whispered something in the Dwarf's ear. O n keeled over, snorts of scurrilous laughter escaping him. His ruddy face was incandescent with mirth, his black eyes snapping. "Aye … too true," he managed at last, muffling rasping guffaws against the worn cloth of his sleeve. "Well pleased I am to have met you, _felak-gundu_."

"And I you." Finrod straightened, brushing his hair back from his face. His eyes went to the young king tethered firmly to the mast, and he smiled again. "And well met, my liege. I am glad to see with my own eyes one born of the line of Lúthien and Beren. It is a rare sight in this world, and wondrous fair."

Abruptly, Elrond ceased tugging at the ropes securing his wrists. He tried to bow, but the tight knots brought him up short and his face turned an ugly puce as they constricted his chest. "I wish that I might have met you in better times, Lord Finrod. I regret that you find me…" He inclined his head. "…So indisposed."

"I think your brother is set to remedy that."

Elrond glanced at his twin, and his eyes widened in alarm. Elros held a knife easily as long as his forearm and wickedly curved. The oiled blade gleamed ominously scarlet beneath the rays of the new sun. He would have edged away if the massive pillar of wood had permitted him to do so.

Elros scowled, and cut the ropes away with a precise snick.

The king grasped his own wrists, wincing at the runnels of pain that trickled through them. His fingers were raw and swollen, the knuckles almost invisible, and yet he managed a credible bow, his hair swinging about his shoulders in sodden rattails.

The elder Elf's fingers curled around his shoulder, bracing him upright when he began to sway uneasily. He staggered slightly, reeling backwards and forwards on the tilting deck, one arm outspread. Mortal as well as immortal, he could not help but shiver as the chill breeze blew across his soaked clothing, tucking his chin to his chest. "You are come upon an errand of war?" He pressed blue lips together and winced again. "I am a fool: why else would the host of the Valar brave the wide oceans but to bring stern war to the very gates of Angband?"

Finrod smiled faintly as the Shipwright tucked a worsted cape about the younger Elf's shoulders, fastening it with a tarnished brass pin, twisted and scraped with age. Bloodstains marred the cloak's hem, but the peredhel did not seem to notice, his hands curled deeply into its warm folds. Slowly, a little of the colour returned to his face and he straightened, seeming to take on once more the mantle of the kingship that time and fate had so rudely thrust upon him.

"Aye, we come to war," Finrod said, one hand gesturing to the fleet which rocked slowly behind him, the first sunlight striking polished wood and pale canvas like a memory of better days and meads untouched even by the reaching shadows. "The Valar are gone to war for the sake of Men and Elves alike. No other day shall dawn such as this one shall be." His voice was soft with awe, his gaze far distant.

"We had despaired and knew no hope that the West might come to our aid." Elrond shook his head. "Still this seems but a dream to me, a vision sent to comfort my sleep against the hopeless dawn."

"This is no dream, son of E rendil. What dream would send one whose fate it was to die in the dungeons of his own keep to bring you comfort?" he asked wryly.

Elrond shook his head, dazed. "Friend of my fathers O n called you in truth, Lord Finrod, and so you were a true friend to mine."

Elros made his way to his brother's side, gripping the elder twin's arm in reassurance.

"To have shared in their deeds made a glory even of folly." Bright pain showed for a moment in Finrod's eyes ere he veiled it with practised ease. "Have you not seen the beacon of hope shining in your skies these years past? E rendil your sire and your mother the Lady Elwing came upon the westernmost shores of the Undying Lands, and the endeavour they had so long tried came at last to fruition, for your father wore the Silmaril bound upon his brow. Thus it was that he was brought before the Lords of the World, sitting in judgement in the Ring of Doom. Then much was spoken of the ills of the world and the deeds of the Noldor in exile. And by the word of Manw this doom was set, that your father should sail in the heavens as a token of hope, and that Middle-earth should not longer languish beneath the fell hand of Morgoth who destroys and does not make, save in mockery. But of that it is not my place to speak further, nor is the hour yet full ripe for all tellings…"

Whatever else he might have said remained lost twixt the warp and weft of Vairë's weavings.

The sun, glancing low beneath the yards, pale and silvery with the winter's morning fell clean upon Finrod's head, a brilliant blow of light cleaving across his open face. The wind rustled the hem of his cloak. Very fair he seemed then, this figure from legend, a sword girt at his hip and mail about him.

Light footsteps, elven-quiet trod the companionway.

A brisk question.

"Lady Araliel…" Elrond nodded in curt welcome. "How fare the injured? I fear that the storm…"

He halted, abruptly aware that her attention was no longer on him. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her face bloodless. One arm hung limply by her side; the other hand had flown to her throat, her fingers twisted into ragged claws. Her mouth worked silently, as if words were suddenly beyond her.

"Elbereth preserve me…" a voice breathed, and Elrond swung round abruptly. Finrod was staring at the Elven maiden with stark horror in his grey eyes, a blanketing fear darker than starless night.

And then Araliel, pragmatic Araliel whom even the legions of Morgoth had not fazed, wavered and fell, crumpling to the wooden deck in a dead faint.

Before the king could do more than take a single step towards her sprawled and tangled form, Finrod was at her side, his fingers fumbling frantically for the broach holding his cloak closed at the neck. Another moment and Elrond knelt beside her, feeling for the pulse that beat slow and steady in her neck. The Noldo tucked his cloak about her, clutching her hand between both of his. There was no detached humour in his eyes now, and Elrond flinched back from the void in its place.

"Awake, beloved," Finrod whispered. "Awake, Amarie…"

Elrond met his brother's eyes and beheld his own shock mirrored therein.

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**TBC**


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